I've got some time to waste, so here is a poem.

Pieces

When I go to work, you get a true show.
Of a mask so thick you wouldn't really know,
Who I was or what I'm really made of.
Because this is how you act when push comes to shove.

You play the game with only a few pieces.
Flashes of hereditary mannerisms, of genetic diseases.
You can't even tell who you really are.
Are you the writer or the reality star?

I put it down on paper like moths to flames.
To ask a question of answered remains.
Is this why the sun keeps sinking?
A mind burned out on thoughtful thinking?

Epilogues to monologues of written disaster.
Words contextualized into hardened plaster.
To where do the artists fall into it all?
We're right where you left us, trapped inside the wall.

I'm not saying you should listen to everything you hear.
To read a book, or watch the news; to simply generate fears.
For the worst that could happen is an insidious combination.
That the world around you is a hideous abomination.

What if you believe my truths, are your lies?
That my thoughts are nothing more than pretended, opinionative, signs?
To bow before my mind's creation.
Of attention grabbing proclamation?

Who's to say who's right or wrong?
In a sense, my creditability couldn't be that strong.
For the ability of moving boulders, or excavating caves.
Should I receive punishment or praise?

This is coming from a truly small poet.
Using the power of mixing words and notions.
Could I truly change another human being?
Or is this the fantasy that only I am seeing?

I'll put the mask back on, and hide in the cold.
My breaths will falter and I'll quickly grow old.
But physically I'll still be infantile.
To make the jokes and make others smile.

-Darren Ebbs-2008